From an Desk of the Editor;
Hello and welcome literature
fans to Larks Fiction Magazine! Tonight we bring you the very best in
literature from the rising stars of the language arts world. Join us
for an exploration of the human condition through art.
In news our back log of
ebook publications should be begin to clear out this week. You should
see two more editions to our Smashwords store soon.
Also we have brought on
another editor to help read through our submissions. As of now we are
current on all of our readings. Acceptance and rejection letters will
still take a little while to filter out. We hope to be caught up by
the end of October.
All the best,
Jessica Rowse
LFM Editor
New Eyes
By Deng Xiang
Since the inception of life, I looked through windows
Carved from my skull, a cavity lies deep
Like an abyss, which cannot be supplanted
By platinum and stainless steel,
Or priceless diamond and gems.
Nothing comes so natural,
So profound, and the heart learns to evince
Its emotions aloud through them.
Your voice unravels its meaning too
As it complements every nuance
Of your biological movements.
Show what you got. Let your eyes
Tell the tenor of your understanding;
Let your eyes augment the flaws you have,
As where you stand
Is how everything falls
Into homogeneous places.
About the Poet;
Deng Xiang speaks, writes articles,
poems and stories while sharing his passion for all things erudite
and salient. Mainly, his subsistence comprises of highbrow literature
from chemistry to pure mathematics. His appetite for knowledge never
ceases, even if he got an accomplishment worth showing off.
Under a Marble Sky
Photo by Daniel J. Pool
First You'll Have to Learn not to Breathe
by Adam Hoss
“First, Ms. Burke, you'll have to
learn not to breathe.”
Pedro Guerra sat cramped in the plastic
discomfort of the waiting room. All thirty seats were taken.
An obese Asian man with nacho dust in
his mustache bounced his knee in the opposite chair. Two rows over, a
freckled girl stared at a magazine page she hadn't flipped in hours
and a black-haired child drew crayon spaceships on the wall while his
mother slept. Key rings and checkbooks rattled in shaky hands. The
elderly receptionist forced a smile.
“Now, you'll try to breathe,” the
doctor continued. He spoke to a woman in a wheelchair. “This is
natural, Ms. Burke. Absent the physical activity of breathing, the
brain thinks it's dying. Patients have gone as far as dislocating
their jaws. Rest assured, the setbacks are temporary.”
The brochure recommended practicing how
not to breathe with eyes closed in an empty, peaceful place. Pedro
had the brochure memorized.
“Can you believe some folks get the
operation reversed?” the Asian man asked.
Pedro stared at the white tiles between
his feet until he realized the man had directed the question at him.
“Oh,” Pedro muttered. “Yeah. I
don't get that either.”
The man grinned.
“Scared?”
“No.”
Pedro had mangled the brochure to
shreds in his fist.
“Do not attempt to walk unassisted
within the initial twenty-four hours,” the doctor continued.
The doctor's chiseled physique was
evident even through his lab coat. His pale blue eyes, perfect
symmetry and adolescent face could woo royalty and lead the celibate
astray. Despite her mask of bandages, the wheelchair-bound woman also
glistened, an ageless wax angel whose eyes alone could incite
madness, cult followings or world war.
Pedro knew better.
“You'll frequently stumble in the
first week,” the doctor said. “This is natural. The brain needs
time to adjust to its new equipment.”
The brochure suggested two weeks of
physical therapy on an outpatient basis. The brochure provided
directions to local facilities. The brochure said that proper
training can condition the brain to believe anything.
“The name's Wei,” the Asian man
said.
“Hi.”
Pedro knew his life would change before
he read the e-mail. The subject line was subtle. Screams of “YOU'VE
WON” are red flags for fraud. But when Pedro saw the clinic's name
in the inbox, he knew.
Had the message arrived before the
accident, Pedro's mother would be here instead. In cases such as Mrs.
Guerra's, the lottery system passes rights to next of kin.
Pedro's father had also won the
procedure. A day later, he promptly fled the country and had not been
in touch.
“Don't have a name?” Wei asked.
“Fine. I'll call you Zeppelin, then.”
“Huh?”
“Christ, kid. You're a wreck,” he
said. “Zeppelin. As in, the band. It's on your t-shirt.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Panels of curved glass filtered
sunlight against white walls. The words “PATIENTS AND STAFF ONLY”
flanked double doors beside the reception desk. A sign to its right
read “Reminder: The Patient Has Thirty Days Within Which To Reverse
The Procedure. Changes Made Beyond This Point…”
Ms. Burke's wheelchair obscured the
rest.
“Now,” the doctor told her, “you'll
have the opportunity to select an approximation of your original
voice. Most patients, however, opt for an enhancement. We want
perfect. We're programmed that way. And here at Marinetti Labs, we
deliver.”
Pedro didn't tell Jennifer about the
procedure. Not yet.
“So, Zeppelin, you goin' under the
knife on the company dime?”
“Huh?”
“Your insurance.”
“It's right here,” Pedro mumbled,
fumbling in his pockets.
“For Chris's sake. Do you understand
the English language? Comprende Ingles? Entiende? Te gusta tacos,
hombre? I am asking you if your insurance is covering the operation.”
“Oh,” Pedro says. “Uh, yeah. It
is.”
“Lucky dog,” Wei said. “I had to
empty my life savings. Worth it, though.”
“Hell yeah it's worth it,” snapped
a black man sitting still as stone.
Microscopic disclaimers blanketed the
brochure's backside. Statistical anomalies, the brochure called them.
Still, Pedro had them memorized. Heat sinks can fail. Circuits can
melt the silicone. The brain may reject the wiring, though the
brochure made abundantly clear that, in such cases, Marinetti bears
no responsibility. Rarer still are hospital-borne Trojans, worms,
macros and remote hacks. The brochure is legally required to print
these warnings, and the patient is legally required to accept the
risks.
The disclaimers weren't what Pedro hid
from Jennifer.
Ricardo Guerra worked a landing strip
on the USS Kurzweil. Later, he worked a keyboard and mouse in a
skyscraper downtown. When the random lottery selected him, he didn't
tell his family either.
After the accident, Pedro knew why.
Instead, Ricardo wrote a letter. It
began “I am sorry,” said something about trust, and ended “Love.”
“You know that they say the operation
doesn't only prevent broken bones, but broken hearts?” the black
man asked. “Yup. No more emotional bullshit. Zero. I say it's worth
it.”
The doctor lectured Ms. Burke on muscle
memory therapy. The brochure abbreviated it MMT. Pedro knew the words
before the doctor spoke them. MMT was experimental due to unsettled
theoretical differences that were currently impeding research. The
patient can risk the therapy now, or opt for a return voucher when
the technology is stable.
Ricardo left his return voucher behind.
The brightly-colored ticket sits alone
on an oak table in a four-bedroom cape cod on Fletcher Street, where
Pedro Guerra discovered Playboy, first learned what happened to
Grandma, cried into a dial tone and laughed and loved and fucked and
felt a great evil boiling inside him as he shoved his father against
the wall during an argument over a tenth-grade report card.
A single shred of neon green: the only
evidence Ricardo Guerra existed, that he once wrote a letter that
ended “Love” and that he once learned not to breathe.
“Listen, Zeppelin,” Wei said. “I
didn't mean anything by that 'taco' shit I said. I feel like a
jackass. I'm sorry, man.”
Pedro watched the doctor stuff a neon
slip into Ms. Burke's purse.
Did she also write a letter? Did it end
with “Love?” And who is this hunched, gray man with a pink tie at
her side? Are they afraid? Aroused? In love? Are they here only after
an accident? Does a great evil boil inside them too?
The doctor talked as Pink Tie pushed
Ms. Burke aside.
Yes, Pedro decided. They're killers.
Pink Tie held the gun. Ms. Burke forged the note. They made it look
like suicide. Upon approval of insurance, Marinetti Labs made the
investigation disappear.
“Think she'll be back?” the black
man asked.
The remainder of the sign Ms. Burke had
been hiding read “Come At Unknown Risks.”
“It's insane, right?” the black man
asked. “The people who get it reversed, I mean. It's like, what the
hell? Think about it. Perfect vision. Six pack abs. Orgasms beefed up
beyond belief. An inability to feel fear. Seriously. Look it up. No
more sore throats, no heart attacks, none of that bullshit, man. I
mean, this shit's been scientifically proven and peer reviewed in,
like, thousands of labs, so you know it's true. Look it up.”
“They say it changes you,” Pedro
said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I don't know,” Pedro answered.
“But that's what the people that get it reversed say.”
“Bullshit.”
Yes, the setbacks are temporary. The
brochure said that. Pedro had the brochure memorized long before the
accident.
But every year, for reasons unknown to
Marinetti Labs and the black man and the Pink Tie, patients revert to
their imperfect, fragile deformities, their bruised flesh and scars
and hairline fractures, their sexual shortcomings, their petty
longings for love and sleep, their addictions, their arthritis, their
diagnoses and payment plans and lymph nodes and finite fuses burning
bright in their hearts.
“Wei Lee?” called an orange-haired
nurse.
Fluorescent lights on the black man's
glasses looked like UFOs, Pedro thought.
“Alright, fellas,” Wei said. “I'll
keep the table warm. Oh, and Zeppelin, sorry again about the whole
taco thing. I wasn't thinkin' straight.”
Wei winked and followed the nurse. The
black man crossed his legs, uninterested in further conversation.
Tensely, Pedro shoved the brochure's remains into his jeans pocket,
checked the time on his cell phone, felt for the reassuring texture
of his insurance card, and closed his eyes.
“Last, Ms. Burke,” the doctor said,
“you'll have to learn not to panic when you realize nothing's
beating in your chest.”
The End
About the Author;
I teach Rhetoric and Composition at
Terra State Community College in Fremont, Ohio, hold a Master's
degree in linguistics, and, in addition to my love of letters, harbor
a borderline obsession with obscure, indigenous languages. I
currently live in Sandsuky, Ohio.
Famous Last Words
Chad Bolling
“After I’m finished with this last
bounty, we can be together.” Maahes said as he stroked the purple
hair of a very young girl.
“Famous last words.” The purple
haired girl named Rachel said.
Maahes stood up. He was tall and
scrawny, but his body was completely robotic from his elbows to his
shoulders. Rachel stood up beside Maahes and pulled off his jacket
reveling the robotic body-parts.
“I wish you could be more positive.”
Maahes said as he picked up a gun
from the ground and attached it to his shoulder.
from the ground and attached it to his shoulder.
“I’m sorry Maahes. It’s just...”
Rachel helped Maahes snap the gun into place. “I wish you could get
the procedure done now so my father would let us get married.”
Maahes brushed his hand across Rachel’s
face. “The procedure can’t be done without money, Rachel. Cloning
and growing body-parts is expensive, not to mention the cost of
surgery, and we have to eat once we are married too.”
Rachel stood up on her toes and kissed
Maahes on the cheek. “Well just be careful, okay?”
Maahes nodded in compliance. “I’ll
be fine. Don’t worry.”
A month later Rachel heard a knock at
the door. Hoping that it was Maahes, she rushed over to open the
door, and there he stood. Maahes looked unharmed from the recent
bounty, but very tired. Rachel hugged him.
“Maahes! You’re back!” Rachel
said as she embraced him.
“What are you doing here?” A raspy
voice from a dark corner of the room said.
“I’m sorry sir. I just wanted to
let your daughter know I’m safe,” Maahes replied.
A gray haired man walked out into the
light. He wore a military jacket over his aging but muscular torso
and was puffing away at the last part of a cigar. “I know you’re
sorry cyborg. All of your kind are sorry for what they did to us
humans.” The man turned to the side, reviling his missing right
arm.
“Dad stop!” Rachel said.
“No Rachel it’s fine, I was just
leaving anyway. I’m going back to Earth for the surgery, and when I
come back I won’t be a cyborg anymore.” Maahes said, then turned
his back to them and walked away.
“No one’s safe with you around
cyborg!” Rachel's father shouted after him.
Rachel slammed the door. “Dad! That
war of yours has been over a long time. Don’t you think it’s time
to put the past behind you?”
Her father sat down and put his cigar
out. “Dear, it’s not just the war, it’s him. He’s dangerous,
even if he’s not a cyborg. For Pete’s sake Rachel, do you know
what bounty hunters do? They kill people for money!”
Rachel sighed. “No dad he just
delivers people for money. There’s a big difference.”
“I don’t care. The man is still
dangerous and too old for you.” He said as Rachel stormed off. “If
not for his cybernetic body-parts I would chase him off with more
than words.” Rachel’s father mumbled.
A few months had gone by when Rachel
answered another knock at the door. “Maahes!” Rachel hugged him,
feeling his arms and shoulders.“It’s been done. Hasn’t it?”
Maahes took off his jacket, reveling
the new flesh that replaced his machine parts. “I did it Rachel!
Now we can be together!”
“Not so fast, son.” A raspy voice
said. “Rachel. Step aside!” Rachel’s father said as he ran
toward Maahes dressed in his full military uniform.
“Dad no!” Rachel screamed as her
father punched Maahes in the face.
“Not so tough now are you cyborg?”
Rachel’s father said as he pushed Maahes out of the doorway then
punched him again, this time in the chest. Rachel’s father pushed
his daughter inside as Maahes feel to the ground, holding his chest.
“Now stay away from her you
miserable...cyborg!” Rachel’s father said and then slammed the
door.
End
Chad lives in Long Beach, California
and loves to read and write fiction when he is not enjoying the
cinema or a fine cheeseburger. He has also been published in Farther
Stars Than These.
Thank you for
reading and please join us next week with more great independent
literature here on Larks Fiction Magazine! For more great fiction
also our old issues and check us out on Smashwords.com.
I like the high volume of robot related literature tonight.
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